


Memento

by Nerdanelparmandil



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:20:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21933598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerdanelparmandil/pseuds/Nerdanelparmandil
Summary: Celebrimbor goes from rejecting his father to using the Star of Fëanáro to distinguish his works. How did he come to terms with his family and Fëanáro’s legacy over the ages? This is a small glimpse into one of such steps. Set during the last years of the First Age, when the War has been ongoing for a few decades. Celebrimbor receives something from an unlikely source, and begins to reevaluate the idea he has of his father.Written for Tolkien Secret Santa 2019.
Comments: 21
Kudos: 62
Collections: Tolkien Secret Santa 2019





	Memento

It is a cold early morning when I see one of the Peredhil approach my workshop. I cannot say whether it is still winter, or if spring has already begun. Ever since the War began, the seasons have become almost impossible to tell apart. The smokes belched from the mountains far up North cloud most of the sky. Only the Sea-breeze, unnatural and far too strong, keeps them from swallowing all of Beleriand. There have been years in which the sky was aflame, cracked occasionally by white-blue lightnings, and the rolling thunders that always followed would shake the very earth under our feet. In those years, the Sea would swell and froth, and from the towers of our city we could see its enormous waves crash and erode the northern shores. What a strange creature, the Sea. 

My memories of it before coming to Balar are of a dark ominous matter swallowing the bodies of my father’s followers, those who slipped on the polished white wood of the stolen Swan Boats, unable to swim, their hands stained red. 

I fear it. 

It is the Falathrim’s strongest ally, but not mine. Gil-Galad has opened his small refuge to me and my people, in friendship and kinship, if such things still exist between us - indeed, it appears they do - and we built our small homes, quaint forges, and workshops on the fringes of the settlement. Inland. 

The Eldar have long memories, the Sea even longer. 

Our small island endured, protected by Ulmo’s blessing, and from here we sent out whatever help we could, until there was no one left to send, and only the wounded returned to haunt the streets. I am one of them. I was in Gil-Galad’s vanguard, when an injury that almost costed me a leg, and not yet healed, forced them to send me back to recover. I was more useful hale and _alive_ as a smith than as one of the numerous generals and commanders, had said the King.

These last few years, however, have passed almost in peace. The two armies are caught in stalemate, and even Gil-Galad has come back to rest and recover. Apparently, some roads have been safe enough for two Peredhils and a handful of former followers of Maedhros and Maglor to travel here. Their arrival caused an uproar, but far more pleasant than expected. It has been a reason for rejoicing and feasting amidst this wasteland and endless war.

He looks young, barely an adult, and yet - he should look younger still. He holds something in his hands, a bundle oddly shaped. It is wrapped in a piece of faded red cloth, the embroidery old and almost unravelled. My heart lurches. 

I feign indifference at his coming, as if he were a mere visitor come to ask for a commission, and greet him as a common man. A good-day to you, sir, do you require anything -

He is awkward, shifting in place in a way that is painfully familiar, for I do it too. Or better, I used to do that, and a faint voice that sounds like my mother’s tells me I learned that from my father.

My father, whose last belongings are wrapped in that scrap of one of his old capes. 

The Peredhil does not say this, of course.

He has a pleasant voice, soft and clear. He is curious, I can see it in the glint of his light-blue eyes, how they jump from tool to tool, how they linger on my face, as if he wanted to catalogue me, perhaps to see how I compare to what he knows, what he has seen.

I turn as he speaks, pretending to be absorbed in the pattern that I am designing for a series of scabbards. 

I don’t want to listen, but I do, I cannot help it. His voice is compelling too, and I am drawn to him, lulled by his words that weave an invisible net around me, telling me to turn and face him, show him, bare myself before him. I am a puzzle, and he wants to figure me out. 

I have known voices such as this.

“You, Child of Man and Elda, need to learn some control.”

He stops mid-sentence, and I glance at him. He is still as a statue, eyes and mouth wide open, and I catch a glimpse of his mannish youth as he is caught off guard. He looks a little guilty for his trick, or mortified for being discovered. 

I should be angry, and I know that it would be well within my right to rebuke him and ban him from my forge. 

For a fleeting moment I am tempted to do it, but not because of the attempted intrusion. 

Taking refuge here, in Balar, has been a necessity, and I suppose I should be grateful to Gil-Galad and Círdan both. I am, although, I cannot say I live peacefully here, with myself or with the other inhabitants. As I said, the memories of the Eldar are long. We are also a suspicious people, I discovered to my bitter surprise. Born out of necessity, because Morgoth would exploit even that small scrape of pity one could muster when faced with a - a former thrall. 

Some would say that there are no _former_ thralls. See, there are some discussions among the wise and the learned about our nature, and the nature of Humans, of Evil, about cruelty, justice - despite our continuous state of alarm and precarious safety on this island. It could appear encouraging that there is still time to think about such matters and people willing to spend their energies for it. Yet, war does not care for the speculations of philosophers. It devours, slowly but surely, even if you are not directly involved in the fighting, until all you’re left with is a shell of a person, emptied of will and mercy. It made us cruel, this war, and it touched us all, philosophers included. 

So, former thralls. For years I have argued against this idea, this prejudice - I could cite but one fulgid example, a virtuous lord, a simple man beneath the rich princely robes, who had fought and conquered this malicious influence on his spirit, and who had been given the chance to do so because of the kindness of his kin. _There_ was our hope! 

I cannot speak now. 

I work and study, trying to keep as much out of Círdan’s way as I can, and to avoid Gil-Galad’s court, head bowed and back bent, and I am silent. Stares and whispers follow me sometimes, but I brush them off, although my house door is locked at night. 

In Elros’ intrusion, then, I had feared this: the sickening curiosity of my co-inhabitants, the tendency to inspect and prod as if you were an uncanny creature, with a limb too many and an unstable mind, ready to attack at the slightest provocation. A rabid wolf. A possible thrall. 

But Elros is of a different kind, it seems. He is curious, and wishes for an answer as soon as he thinks of the question, but there is no cruelty in him. Only wonder and challenge. 

I feel a careful apology worm its way between us and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to prevent a bitter smile to curve my lips. He has better manners than half the population of Balar. 

“Did someone send you here?”

He shakes his head, but stays silent.

“I would like to know your name, at the very least, since you are interrupting my work.”

He bites his lips, frowning, and an overwhelming wave of familiarity hits me - and longing, sharp and out of place.

_Not now._

“I assumed you - knew it already.”

I simply shrug, and he clasps his hands behind his back, lifting his chin. 

“I am Elros, son of Eärendil.”

He would look proud and almost arrogant, if not for his voice wavering on the patronymic, and had he not fumbled with the parcel in his hands. 

“Well, son of Eärendil, welcome,” I say, taking off my gloves and wiping my sweaty hands on my dirty apron. I do not offer a bow, and he takes no notice of my breach in the protocol. “To what do I owe this visit?”  
I see him hesitate. He wishes to ask something, I see the question - or accusation - take a tremulous shape in his mind, unguarded for a fleeting moment, before he realises his mistake and tries to push me away. He blushes a deep red and grimaces.

“As I said, you do need to learn how to keep your mind from intruding into others, and fast,” I tell him, “Have you not practiced it yet?”

Perhaps my tone is harsher than I intended, or his gift for _ósanwë_ is stronger than I thought at first, because he recoils, as if he heard the underlying insinuation - _Have_ they _been so negligent in your education?_

They haven’t, I discover. 

It costs him some effort, but he reigns in his mind, and all I feel is an impenetrable wall, dull and grey. 

The most interesting thing, however, is that his face is all but blank. He is outraged, a little hurt in his pride, and I need no glimpse inside his thoughts to perceive this - the set of his mouth, with the corners downturned, the flash of rage in his brilliant eyes (how uncanny it is to see such a light in someone _else_ ), the way the muscles in his neck contract as he breathes in sharply. 

He is a Finwëan through and through. Perhaps, had I seen Elwë Singollo, I would have likened him to his mother’s line. But the glimpses of Lúthien I caught in Nargothrond have been marred by betrayal and other things I wish to forget. 

(I could tell myself that it is easier to think of him as a Finwëan, because it seems a less perilous connection than Doriath and what has happened there - except it isn’t, because he _is_ a son of _Ñolo_ finwë too, through Turukáno and Eärendil and - and I am _not_ guilty, but the weight of my family’s mistakes is heavy on my shoulders, despite my rejection.)

“I came to give you this,” he says finally. His arms hover in the space between us, the odd bundle’s red cloth, faded and stained and unravelled in places, glares at me as if it were a sentient being - a vessel still full of my father’s spirit.

I can almost feel _him_ , but I try to convince myself it is only my imagination and my cowardice playing with me. 

I am careful and wary when I take it, and I have too much pride left in me to open it in front of this child, who is staring intently at my every feature. 

He expects something from me, a nod of gratitude or simple acknowledgement, but there is a strange emotion playing in his eyes that I cannot place.

So I thank him, drawing myself to my full height, but keeping my smile carefully friendly. He exhales, silently enough as to be almost imperceptible, and I see the lines of his body relax. 

He leaves immediately, and I am left wondering what he has found in me. 

*

My father’s last belongings sit wrapped and dusty under my bed, and it is not until the other Peredhil has visited me that I find the courage to undo the ties and take a peek at what is inside. I feel again like a little child, sneaking into my parents’ bedroom, rummaging through my mother’s clothes folded in her drawers, looking for her jewels to play with. 

She used to complain about the mess I made of her underwear and nightgowns, but never berated me for my curiosity. Nor did she ever fear that I would break any of her pieces - my father or my grandfather had made them, and it was a point of pride in their craft that even their most intricate necklace or hairpiece could withstand the whims of a little child. 

With the same trepidation of my youth, hands trembling uncharacteristically, I unravel the knots that hold the bundle together.

*

Elrond comes to see me almost two full months after his brother. This time, his visit is justified by the breastplate he carries. It is a ceremonial piece, commissioned especially for him and Elros by the King not long ago, and I wonder why he would come to me already. Surely, the artists appointed by the king for its decoration have done a commendable job.

Except that when he places the plate on one of my worktables and uncovers it, it is pristine and completely bare.

“We could choose the artist and the design. I thought that you - that is, I wondered if you…”

He blushes and looks down. I study his profile, drumming my fingers on the wooden surface of the table, and his eyes dart to them. He looks a little miserable, though he has a better control on his emotions and his mental filter than his brother. 

“So, I must presume that you weren’t satisfied with the designs that have been proposed to you so far?”

He wets his lips before speaking, “Something like that.”

“Do you have something particular in mind?”

“Can you do it?”

“I can do many things, Peredhel, but you will have to be more precise.”

He takes a deep breath, as if bracing himself for - a rejection, maybe. He is guarded when he looks at me, yet resolute. 

“I do have something in mind. Let me show you.”

*

Two books, one of a considerable size. Some pouches - by their weight they must contain jewellery. A wooden box, exquisitely engraved. As I run my fingers over the carvings, I can feel the power of the spell of preservation cast over it. Whatever lays inside, it must have been perhaps the most prized possession of my father. 

Underneath all of this, a small tunic, embroidered with gold on a rich deep red, and my heart constricts painfully in my chest at the sight of it. It was mine, once. I had worn it when, in my early youth, we used to attend my great-grandfather’s ceremonies and feasts. I don’t know why father decided to take this particular tunic with him, what significance it held for him, to the point of imbuing the metallic threads with spells against its deterioration. 

Each item here seems as if frozen in time, suspended in a state between remembrance and oblivion. These objects well preserved may be, but so many years have passed since the last time my father touched them. 

Why give them back now?

I slip my fingers inside one of the pouches, and the object that sits now on my palm is a hairpin, of bright silver, adorned with sapphires and aquamarines. It belonged to my mother. Like I did with my tunic, she wore it on the days of feast in the Palace. It was one of father’s gifts. 

I weight the other pouches in my hands, sure that they will contain more of my mother’s jewels, and I realise how much I’m trembling. 

I do not want to look at the rest, for fear of the pain these objects will undoubtedly cause me. Yet, I am curious.

Had I received them some years ago, I would not have given them a second glance. I did not want to have anything to do with something that had belonged to my father. 

*

I should refuse, I know I should. This is crazy. Elrond is completely out of his mind, how can he even suggest something like this to decorate his breastplate- 

He would have to wear in front of the whole court, in front of Círdan and Gil-Galad, who would immediately recognise my hand in the design, who would think of this as an attempt on my part to undermine their authority, who would read this as the confirmation of every suspicion…

“And I think that this way the two emblems overlap enough to be almost indistinguishable at a first glance. They are already similar...Obviously, their - your star should not touch the edges of the square, and I would keep the blue, but as for the centre I prefer to have the flowered pattern, maybe merging the two of Idril and Lúthien-”

I shake my head, “No, Elrond. I cannot do this.”

He snaps his attention back on me, his eyes widening in what I can only call disappointment.

“But why?”

“Have you considered the consequences? The message you will give?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then what is it? From what I see, I understand that you would place your - Maedhros and Maglor even above the Houses of Men from which you descend. I see Lúthien here, and Idril, and Fingolfin, which is perfect, these connections are well within your right to claim. But not the House of Fëanáro, I beg you. Not here, not now.”

He frowns and studies me in a way so similar to Elros, that for a moment I’m unsure of who I’m talking with. I know that he understands my unspoken reasons, but he is unwilling to give in. 

Whatever attachment he has had with Maedhros and Maglor, it must have been strong, but I don’t understand. 

(Or, I pretend not to understand, but this is a matter I prefer to ignore, for now.)

“Then what do you suggest?”

To forego any symbol of the House of Fëanáro, would be my instinctive answer. To forswear any allegiance with them, and to embrace fully his _real_ descent, which will give him and his brother the status and the protection they deserve and need in this disjointed court. 

“We can alter the design a little,” I say instead, “Namely, I would avoid the emblem of the House of Fëanáro as you placed it, but maybe we can find another way to incorporate it in the general design - I have some things in mind, I will show you. But I need to know exactly what kind of message you want to send, and how you want to present yourself, because something like this, as you proposed it, would offend half of the population here on Balar. From what I’ve heard of you, you’re smart enough to know this, right?”

He takes his time before giving me an answer, and already from the way his expression becomes one of gravity and barely hidden pity, I know that I will not argue my point any further.

“I don’t mean to offend anyone, Lord Celebrimbor, and your advice is wise. But my heart tells me that I need to acknowledge them in a way - not for their House or what they have done, but for what they gave me, despite everything. They made me the man I am, for better or worse. I want to cherish those memories, and make clear that - well, that in some ways, I do not tolerate certain things… I mean,” he sighs, runs a hand through his hair, tugging the braids at his temples, “I do care for them,” he says quietly, “and I’m not sure for how long this fleeble love I hold for them will last. I want to acknowledge it while I can.”

*

The first book is a poetry collection. It has some faded annotations on the margins, dates and names - my mother’s, my father’s, places in Valinor. I don’t need to read it to know that this is love poetry. I don’t want to read it. 

The other book is more interesting, but no easier to leaf through. It is a relatively small but heavy tome, its hundreds of pages filled with my father’s careful and minute calligraphy. No, not all of it is my father’s. The first hundred pages, more or less, have been written by a hand that I would recognise among a thousand, even after all this time. Some of Fëanáro’s notes are preserved here, about the languages of Beleriand, the strange new ores, new techniques for smithing and forging, designs, theories, observations… 

The value of this book is inestimable. Somehow, I know that I’m expected to complete it, as there is still space for me to write things down. I’m surprised, though, to discover that the idea does not fill me with dread or uneasiness. I’m not eager either, but perhaps, in time, I will read it and look at its content without the strange discomfort that fills me every time I am confronted with my legacy. Some day. 

Because no matter how much I _pretend_ , there is a part of me, confused and unrefined, that still suffers from the severed connection, and that would give _anything_ for another chance. Yet, I don’t have Elrond kindness, nor can I shake off other people’s remarks, stares, and diffidence the way the two Peredhil can. 

And then, there is the small box. 

Do I dare open it? 

Elrond’s words echo in my mind, and I know that I am beyond excuses now. I hesitate only because of a sense of shame and my own cowardice. Faced with the possibility that my father’s image would be forever altered by the content of this box - and I know it will be, because all of these objects have just had the same effect, how could this be any different? - all of my certainties crumble one after the other, as I work on the binding spells on its lock. 

My father was a cruel man.

He kept a book of love poetry - which he and mother had read together, from the looks of it, in the days of their courtship and early marriage.

My father left my mother without regard for her feelings.

He kept one of her hairpins - one of a pair, which, I remember now, thinking back to the paintings in our house in Tirion, she had worn on her wedding day.

My father never cared for me after I left him.

He kept my little tunic, preserved it until the very end. 

My father had always walked in Fëanáro’s shadow - and don’t I walk in theirs too, no matter how much I try not to? 

Yet, he kept his journal, and completed his work, commented it, expanded upon it - and left it to me. It does not look like the work of an embittered son, resentful for his lack of greatness in the face of his sire. No, father had never struggled in that sense. He had loved grandfather deeply, and had been loyal to him in a way I have never seen the likes ever since. Was it wrong, in the end? Or was it an act of love, that got twisted and spoiled by - what, precisely? 

The causes for his - their, because all of them have gone down the same path - fall are so diverse and multifaceted, that it is almost impossible to say _where_ and _when_ things had begun. 

Perhaps it was always destined to be like this, as some wise old fools try to say, but isn’t that a terrifying perspective on our lives? To think that everything we do, out of a good intention and sentiment even, can lead to such devastating consequences - how can one go on living? 

So absorbed am I in these thoughts, that I almost miss the clicking sound of the box opening. I take a deep breath as I lift the lid, and the air catches in my throat. There are letters, neatly folded and bound together with a ribbon. And there are three rings that I recognise. Two of them, one of gold and one of silver, had always adorned my father’s hands ever since I could remember. His betrothal and wedding ring. He would take them off only while working in the forge.

The third is my first attempt at forging a ring entirely on my own. I remember the long hours spent trying to figure out what kind of design would work better with each metal alloy, what gems I could use, which steps I would follow...I remember my father’s silvery eyes following me, watching my every move in silence. He only nodded when I presented him my finished work, and pointed out the mistakes and irregularities.

I remember how he had tucked me in bed that night, and kissed my brow, and I had known that he was proud of me. 

He had never spoken those words aloud, yet, I have always felt them slip between us, from his heart into mine.


End file.
